"Get an old woman who can heal, another who can precog the future, and your village is set up. We Psis have been helping longer than we realize."
"Come on, Tim!" Pat called, tanned hands to her lips. "Time to go back!"
The boy bent down one last time to peer into the depths of his structure, the elaborate inner sections and his sand building.
Suddenly he screamed, leaped back and came racing frantically toward the car.
Pat caught hold of him and he clung to her, face distorted with terror. "What is it?" Pat was frightened. "Curt, what was it?"
Curt came over and squatted down beside the boy. "What was in there?" he asked gently. "You built it."
The boy's lips moved. "A Left" he muttered almost inaudibly. "There was a Left, I know it. The first real Left. And it hung on."
Pat and Curt glanced at each other uneasily. "What's he talking about?" Pat asked.
Curt got behind the wheel of the car and pushed open the doors for the two of them. "I don't know. But I think we'd better get back to town. I'll talk to Fairchild and get this business of Anti-Psi cleared up. Once that's out of the way, you and I can devote ourselves to Tim for the rest of our lives."
Fairchild was pale and tired as he sat behind his desk in his office, hands folded in front of him, a few Norm-class advisors here and there, listening intently. Dark circles mooned under his eyes. As he listened to Curt he sipped at a glass of tomato juice.
"In other words," Fairchild muttered, "you're saying we can't really trust you Psis. It's a paradox." His voice broke with despair. "A Psi comes here and says all Psis lie. What the hell am I supposed to do?"
"Not all Psis." Being able to preview the scene gave Curt remarkable calmness. "I'm saying that in a way Terra is right … the existence of super-talented humans poses a problem for those without super-talents. But Terra's answer is wrong; sterilization is vicious and senseless. But cooperation isn't as easy as you imagine. You're dependent on our talents for survival and that means we have you where we want you. We can dictate to you because, without us, Terra would come in and clap you all into military prison."
"And destroy you Psis," the old man stood. "Don't forget that."
Curt eyed the old man. It was the same wide-shouldered, gray-faced individual of the night before. There was something familiar about him. Curt peered closer and gasped, in spite of his preview.
"You're a Psi," he said.
The old man bowed slightly. "Evidently."
"Come on," Fairchild said. "All right, we've seen this girl and we'll accept your theory of Anti-Psi. What do you want us to do?" He wiped his forehead miserably. "I know Reynolds is a menace. But damn it, Terran infiltrators would be running all around here without the Corps!"
"I want you to create a legal fourth class," Curt stated. "The Anti-Psi class. I want you to give it status-immunity from sterilization. I want you to publicize it. Women come in here with their children from all parts of the Colonies, trying to convince you they've got Psis to offer, not Mutes. I want you to set up the Anti-Psi talents out where we can utilize them."
Fairchild licked his dry lips. "You think more exist already?"
"Very possibly. I came on Pat by accident. But get the flow started! Get the mothers hovering anxiously over their cribs for Anti-Psis… We'll need all we can get."
There was silence.
"Consider what Mr. Purcell is doing," the old man said at last. "An Anti-Precog may arise, a person whose actions in the future can't be previewed. A sort of Heisenberg's indeterminate particle … a man who throws off all precog prediction. And yet Mr. Purcell has come here to make his suggestions. He's thinking of Separation, not himself."
Fairchild's fingers twitched. "Reynolds is going to be mad as hell "
"He's already mad," Curt said. "He undoubtedly knows about this right now"
"He'll protest!"
Curt laughed, some of the officials smiled. "Of course he'll protest. Don't you understand? You're being eliminated. You think Norms are going to be around much longer? Charity is damn scarce in this universe. You Norms gape at Psis like rustics at a carnival. Wonderful … magical. You encouraged Psis, built the School, gave us our chance here in the Colonies. In fifty years you'll be slave laborers for us. You'll be doing our manual labor—unless you have sense enough to create the fourth class, the Anti-Psi class. You've got to stand up to Reynolds."
"I hate to alienate him," Fairchild muttered. "Why the hell can't we all work together?" He appealed to the others around the room. "Why can't we all be brothers?"
"Because," Curt answered, "we're not. Face facts. Brotherhood is a fine idea, but it'll come into existence sooner if we achieve a balance of social forces."
"Is it possible," the old man suggested, "that once the concept of Anti-Psi reaches Terra the sterilization program will be modified? This idea may erase the irrational terror the non-mutants have, their phobia that we're monsters about to invade and take over their world. Sit next to them in theaters. Marry their sisters."
"All right," Fairchild agreed. "I'll construct an official directive. Give me an hour to word it—I want to get all the loopholes out."
Curt got to his feet. It was over. As he had previewed, Fairchild had agreed. "We should start getting reports almost at once," he said. "As soon as routine checking of the files begins."
Fairchild nodded. "Yes, almost at once."
"I assume you'll keep me informed." Apprehension moved through Curt. He had succeeded … or had he? He scanned the next half hour. There was nothing negative he could preview. He caught a quick scene of himself and Pat, himself and Julie and Tim. But still his uneasiness remained, an intuition deeper than his precog.
Everything looked fine, but he knew better. Something basic and chilling had gone wrong.
IV
He met Pat in a small out-of-the-way bar at the rim of the city. Darkness flickered around their table. The air was thick and pungent with the presence of people. Bursts of muted laughter broke out, muffled by the steady blur of conversation.
"How'd it go?" she asked, eyes large and dark, as he seated himself across from her. "Did Fairchild agree?"
Curt ordered a Tom Collins for her and bourbon and water for himself. Then he outlined what had taken place.
"So everything's all right." Pat reached across the table to touch his hand. "Isn't it?"
Curt sipped at his drink. "I guess so. The Anti-Psi class is being formed. But it was too easy. Too simple."
"You can see ahead, can't you? Is anything going to happen?"
Across the dark room the music machine was creating vague patterns of sound, random harmonics and rhythms in a procession of soft clusters that drifted through the room. A few couples moved languidly together in response to the shifting patterns.
Curt offered her a cigarette and the two of them lit up from the candle in the center of the table. "Now you have your status."
Pat's dark eyes flickered. "Yes, that's so. The new Anti-Psi class. I don't have to worry now. That's all over."
"We're waiting for others. If no others show, you're a member of a unique class. The only Anti-Psi in the Universe."
For a moment Pat was silent. Then she asked, "What do you see after that?" She sipped her drink. "I mean, I'm going to stay here, aren't I? Or will I be going back?"
"You'll stay here."
"With you?"
"With me. And with Tim."
"What about Julie?"
"The two of us signed mutual releases a year ago. They're on file, somewhere. Never processed. It was an agreement we made, so neither of us could block the other later on."
"I think Tim likes me. He won't mind, will he?"
"Not at all," Curt said.
"It ought to be nice, don't you think? The three of us. We can work with Tim, try to find out about his talent, what he is and what he's thinking. I'd enjoy that … he responds to me. And we have a long time; there's no hurry."
Her fingers clasped around his. In the
shifting darkness of the bar her features swam close to his own. Curt leaned forward, hesitated a moment as her warm breath stained his lips and then kissed her.
Pat smiled up at him. "There're so many things for us to do. Here, and perhaps later on Prox VI. I want to go back there, sometime. Could we? Just for a while; we wouldn't have to stay. So I can see that it's still going on, all the things I worked at all my life. So I could see my world."
"Sure," Curt said. "Yes, we'll go back there."
Across from them a nervous little man had finished his garlic bread and wine. He wiped his mouth, glanced at his wristwatch and got to his feet. As he squeezed past Curt he reached into his pocket, jangled change and jerkily brought out his hand. Gripping a slender tube, he turned around, bent over Pat, and depressed the tube.
A single pellet dribbled from the tube, clung for a split second to the shiny surface of her hair, and then was gone. A dull echo of vibration rolled up toward the nearby tables. The nervous little man continued on.
Curt was on his feet, numb with shock. He was still gazing down, paralyzed, when Reynolds appeared beside him and firmly pulled him away.
"She's dead," Reynolds was saying. "Try to understand. She died instantly; there was no pain. It goes directly to the central nervous system. She wasn't even aware of it."
Nobody in the bar had stirred. They sat at their tables, faces impassive, watching as Reynolds signaled for more light. The darkness faded and the objects of the room leaped into clarity.
"Stop that machine," Reynolds ordered sharply. The music machine stumbled into silence. "These people here are Corpsmen," he explained to Curt. "We probed your thoughts about this place as you entered Fairchild's office."
"But I didn't catch it," Curt muttered. "There was no warning. No preview."
"The man who killed her is an Anti-Psi," Reynolds said. "We've known of the category for a number of years; remember, it took an initial probe to uncover Patricia Connley's shield."
"Yes," Curt agreed. "She was probed years ago. By one of you."
"We don't like the Anti-Psi idea. We wanted to keep the class out of existence, but we were interested. We've uncovered and neutralized fourteen Anti-Psis over the past decade. On this, we have virtually the whole Psi-class behind us—except you. The problem, of course, is that no Anti-Psi talent can be brought out unless matched against the Psionic talent it negates."
Curt understood. "You had to match this man against a Precog. And there's only one Precog other than myself."
"Julie was cooperative. We brought the problem to her a few months ago. We had definite proof to give her concerning your affair with this girl. I don't understand how you expected to keep Telepaths from knowing your plans, but apparently you did. In any case, the girl is dead. And there won't be any Anti-Psi class. We waited as long as possible, for we don't like to destroy talented individuals. But Fairchild was on the verge of signing the enabling legislation, so we couldn't hold off any longer."
Curt hit out frantically, knowing even as he did so that it was futile. Reynolds slid back; his foot tangled with the table and he staggered. Curt leaped on him, smashed the tall cold glass that had held Pat's drink and lifted the jagged edges over Reynolds' face.
Corpsmen pulled him off.
Curt broke away. He reached down and gathered up Pat's body. She was still warm; her face was calm, expressionless, an empty burned-out shell that mirrored nothing. He carried her from the bar and out into the frigid night-dark street. A moment later he lowered her into his car and crept behind the wheel.
He drove to the School, parked the car, and carried her into the main building. Pushing past astonished officials, he reached the children's quarters and forced open the door to Sally's rooms with his shoulder.
She was wide-awake and fully dressed. Seated on a straight-back chair the child faced him defiantly. "You see?" she shrilled. "See what you did?"
He was too dazed to answer.
"It's all your fault! You made Reynolds do it. He had to kill her." She leaped to her feet and ran toward him screaming hysterically. "You're an enemy! You're against us! You want to make trouble for all of us. I told Reynolds what you were doing and he—"
Her voice trailed off as he moved out of the room with his heavy armload. As he lumbered up the corridor the hysterical girl followed him.
"You want to go across—you want me to get Big Noodle to take you across!" She ran in front of him, darting here and there like a maniacal insect. Tears ran down her cheeks; her face was distorted beyond recognition. She followed him all the way to Big Noodle's chamber. "I'm not going to help you! You're against all of us and I'm never going to help you again! I'm glad she's dead. I wish you were dead, too. And you're going to be dead when Reynolds catches you. He told me so. He said there wasn't going to be any more like you and we would have things the way they ought to be, and nobody, not you nor any of those numbskulls can stop us!"
He lowered Pat's body onto the floor and moved out of the chamber. Sally raced after him.
"You know what he did to Fairchild? He had him fixed so he can't do anything ever again."
Curt tripped a locked door and entered his son's room. The door closed after him and the girl's frenzied screams died to a muffled vibration. Tim sat up in bed, surprised and half-stupefied by sleep.
"Come on," Curt said. He dragged the boy from his bed, dressed him, and hurried him outside into the hall.
Sally stopped them as they re-entered Big Noodle's chamber. "He won't do it," she screamed. "He's afraid of me and I told him not to. You understand?"
Big Noodle lay slumped in his massive chair. He lifted his great hand as Curt approached him. "What do you want?" he muttered. "What's the matter with her?" He indicated Pat's inert body. "She pass out or something?"
"Reynolds killed her!" Sally shrilled, dancing around Curt and his son. "And he's going to kill Mr. Purcell! He's going to kill everybody that tries to stop us!"
Big Noodle's thick features darkened. The wattles of bristly flesh turned a flushed, mottled crimson. "What's going on, Curt?" he muttered.
"The Corps is taking over," Curt answered.
"They killed your girl?"
"Yes."
Big Noodle strained to a sitting position and leaned forward. "Reynolds is after you?"
"Yes."
Big Noodle licked his thick lips hesitantly. "Where do you want to go?" he asked hoarsely. "I can move you out of here, to Terra, maybe. Or—"
Sally made frantic motions with her hands. Part of Big Noodle's chair writhed and became animate. The arms twisted around him, cut viciously into his puddinglike paunch. He retched and closed his eyes.
"I'll make you sorry!" Sally chanted. "I can do terrible things to you!"
"I don't want to go to Terra," Curt said. He gathered up Pat's body and motioned Tim over beside him. "I want to go to Proxima VI."
Big Noodle struggled to make up his mind. Outside the room officials and Corpsmen were in cautious motion. A bedlam of sound and uncertainty rang up and down the corridors.
Sally's shrill voice rose over the rumble of sound as she tried to attract Big Noodle's attention. "You know what I'll do! You know what will happen to you!"
Big Noodle made his decision. He tried an abortive stab at Sally before turning to Curt; a ton of molten plastic transported from some Terran factory cascaded down on her in a hissing torrent. Sally's body dissolved, one arm raised and twitching, the echo of her voice still hanging in the air.
Big Noodle had acted, but the warp directed at him from the dying girl was already in existence. As Curt felt the air of space-transformation all around him, he caught a final glimpse of Big Noodle's torment. He had never known precisely what it was Sally dangled over the big idiot's head. Now he saw it and understood Big Noodle's hesitation. A high-pitched scream rattled from Big Noodle's throat and around Curt as the chamber ebbed away. Big Noodle altered and flowed as Sally's change engulfed him.
Curt realized, then, the amount of co
urage buried in the vegetable rolls of fat. Big Noodle had known the risk, taken it, and accepted—more or less—the consequences.
The vast body had become a mass of crawling spiders. What had been Big Noodle was now a mound of hairy, quivering beings, thousands of them, spiders without number, dropping off and clinging again, clustering and separating and reclustering.
And then the chamber was gone. He was across.
It was early afternoon. He lay for a time, half-buried in tangled vines. Insects hummed around him, seeking moisture from the stalks of foul-smelling flowers. The red-tinted sky baked in the mounting sunlight. Far off, an animal of some kind called mournfully.
Nearby, his son stirred. The boy got to his feet, wandered about aimlessly and finally approached his father.
Curt pulled himself up. His clothes were torn. Blood oozed down his cheek, into his mouth. He shook his head, shuddered, and looked around.
Pat's body lay a few feet off. A crumpled and broken thing, it was without life of any kind. A hollow husk, abandoned and deserted.
He made his way over to her. For a time he squatted on his haunches, gazing vacantly down at her. Then he leaned over, picked her up, and struggled to his feet.
"Come on," he said to Tim. "Let's get started."
They walked a long time. Big Noodle had dropped them between villages, in the turgid chaos of the Proxima VI forests. Once he stopped in an open field and rested. Against the line of drooping trees a waver of blue smoke drifted. A kiln, perhaps. Or somebody clearing away the brush. He lifted Pat up in his arms again and continued on.
When he crashed from the underbrush and out into the road, the villagers were paralyzed with fright. Some of them raced off, a few remained, staring blankly at the man and the boy beside him.
"Who are you?" one of them demanded as he fumbled for a hack-knife. "What have you got there?"
They got a work-truck for him, allowed him to dump Pat in with the rough-cut lumber and then drove him and his son to the nearest village. He wasn't far off, only a hundred miles. From the common store of the village he was given heavy work clothes and fed. Tim was bathed and cared for, and a general conference was called.
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 147